Clay POV
He woke up once again in the warm bed that belonged to a certain brunette. George was still asleep with his head on Clay's chest and his arms tightly wrapped around Clay's torso. It was a nice change of sleeping environment from the park. It hit him how extremely touch-starved he was. Just this moment felt like waking up in heaven. The brunette showed no sign of waking up, but Clay wasn't complaining. He let himself run his fingers through the soft mess of brown locks that was covering his chest.
The events of the former night was returning, and the suppressed questions started to bubble up again. Like why George had been so distant? Why his dad had paid to get his son beaten up? And why he found the brit sprinting in panic to the park in the middle of the night? The questions were important be he didn't want to ruin the moment.
Little did he know then that all the answers would unintentionally be revealed the same day.
It was as if George had read his mind because he began shuffling around and slowly opened his eyes. Still, he didn't move away, which Clay was utterly thankful for.
"Morning, sleeping beauty." George mumbled a quiet response.
"You know that school's awaiting?" George tilted his head and quirked one eyebrow in Clay's direction. "I'm suspended, genius."
Clay felt like an idiot for forgetting. "Right." The disappointment was hard to disguise. George smirked. "But you have no excuses, rise and shine."
Clay entire body complained when George left his side and began dragging Clay out of bed.
"Can't I just stay here with you?" George shook his head. "No chance, plus I got things to do." It was obvious that George wasn't going to elaborate about what these things meant. So, Clay let it go for now.
They both got dressed and Clay was again prepared to follow George downstairs to get breakfast, but was once again forced to wait in George's room. The reason was per usual George's dad. Clay sat down to wait on the bed. Two holsters was laying on the floor. One containing a shiny silver object and the other a black one.
Knives.
The mere thought was horrible enough to make him cringe. Yet, something urged Clay to reach for them. His hand gripped the silver one and pulled it out. But right as his hand closed around the knife, It was as if he was back in the kitchen re-watching his father's execution. He hated the power these objects held over him.
Someone shook him back to reality. He hadn't even noticed that he was crying. George brown eyes were filled with worry and guilt. "Clay. Let go of the knife." It snapped him out of the trance. The blade had cut into his hand. He swiftly threw the knife away, like it was poisonous.
"I fucking hate it!" He erupted. "These stupid fucking things, the make me completely helpless!" George slowly took the knife from the ground and put it back in the holster. He turned back towards Clay with a unreadable expression. "What is it that the knives trigger?"
Clay stared to the floor and kept his head resting in his hands. "It feels like I'm back in the kitchen, where they killed my dad." The bed shifted and Clay figured that George must be sitting beside him.
"Does it matter what type of knife?"
That got Clay thinking. Kitchen knives were bearable and normal knives that you used to eat with was fine as well. The ones that bothered him the most was the ones that looked like their purpose was to cause harm.
George held both his knives in each of his hands. Clay nodded towards the butterfly knife. "The ones that I know can cause a lot of damaged, like the silver one over there, those are the worst."
George glanced down at the knives and carefully pulled out the black ring-dagger. "How about this one? Throwing knives are rarely sharp." Clay studied the small black knife. It didn't awake the same amount of fear but certainly not pleasure either.
"That one is better. The other one reminds me a lot of the knife they used to kill my dad." But also Clay shrugged as his gaze landed on the black knife.
It went quiet for a while. "Have you ever heard of exposure therapy?"
Clay gave George a curious look. "Can't say I have."
George then continued. "We humans fear things we can't control or don't know anything about. Knives seems to have become the object you project fear onto. But it's nothing more than a harmless object until it's misused."
Clay kept his eyes locked on the black knife. George's words made sense, but the discomfort still remained. "What's your point? That my fear is childish? Trust me, I know." Clay felt how shame tinted his cheeks red. It annoyed him how little control he possessed when it came to knives.
"Do you trust me?"
Clay glanced at the brunette with a confused expression, but nodded carefully.
"Try holding this knife and keep your focus on me, try not to allow yourself to drift away."
He hesitated but eventually took the knife. The first contact was horrible. But because George wouldn't allow him to break eye contact and the differences between this knife and the knife in his reoccurring nightmares, it didn't go horrendously.
George suddenly took the knife back. "The therapy focuses on rewiring the brain. It's not pleasant but the goal is to take back the control."
Clay laughed dryly at George 'professional' persona. "Then how do you take back the control? And just a sidenote; since when are you a therapist?"
George got up and tossed him the sandwich he'd collected from the kitchen. "I have an idea if you're up for it. But it will require you to skip school today." Clay caught the sandwich and smiled. "You won't have to tell me twice. But didn't you said that you had plans?"
"They can wait." George stated firmly.
They climbed down the ladders. Clay had never payed much attention to George' backyard, but it was actually quite beautiful. The brunette led him to edge of the yard where a few trees were stationed. One of them had a hand-painted scoreboard and that's where George stopped.
"Okay, keep in mind that I've no education in the matter and it's more of a chance if this will work or not."
The brunette grabbed the black knife and positioned himself in front of the tree. He stepped forward with his right foot and held the knife in his left hand. George proceeded to bring the knife back over his shoulder and in one quick motion threw the knife, which landed in the middle of the the painted rings. The sounds of metal sticking to the wood made Clay flinch but he had to admit that it was impressive.
"So, your plan's just to show off your skills?" Clay teased, causing George to roll his eyes.
"No, as a matter of fact, my plan is for you to regain some control over the knife. As of right now, the knife controls you."
Clay frowned. The brunette wasn't wrong but it still bothered him. He carefully grabbed the knife from George and placed himself in the same spot where George had stood just minutes before. The cold metal was an unpleasant feeling. However, Clay had always been competitive and refused to give in. He did his best at mimicking George's moves but the knife didn't even hit the tree. Frustrating arose and George laughing at Clay's irritated expression didn't help.
"You know, I think you would get fired as a therapist if you laughed at your clients." George continued to smile. "Good thing I'm not a therapist then."
Clay threw his hands up in the air. "How is it so easy for you?"
George scuffed "Well, first of all, I'm not afraid of knives. Second of all, you're too eager. It's all about your stance, when and how you let go of the knife, and lastly your breathing." Clay gave him a skeptical look. "Breathing? Like some yoga-shit?"
He'd expected George to laugh but the brunette nodded. "Kind of. I've had these knives for as long as I can remember. When I was younger and I felt overwhelmed, going out to our backyard in England and practicing knife throwing really helped to calm me down." The answer was probably the most vulnerable one Clay'd ever gotten from George and it made him want to try and honor that trust by keep practicing.
George informed him that because Clay was right-handed, his left foot should be in front of his right. He also pointed out the importance of letting go of the knife in the right time and keeping a calm mind with focus of his breathing.
It wasn't too bad after some time. Clay realized that he wasn't half bad. Obviously not as good as George, but the brunette expressed how impressed he was at how fast Clay had made progress.
Clay eventually understood what George had meant when he said that he needed to take back the power from the object and understand that he was the one in charge. It got easier the longer they kept going. George was a great teacher, he never rushed him and didn't question if Clay wasn't able to do something. Clay also understood what George had referred to when he'd claimed that it sort of work as a form of meditation.
Clay started to forget that he was even dealing with a knife after a while and the concentration made him completely lose track of time. It felt like an huge win. Sure, the fear remained, but the black knife no longer felt as threatening as when he first saw it. George had left the butterfly knife in his room, which was a relief. Because that knife still had a hold of him.
The day passed by quickly and Clay felt really proud over his progress. Knives had always been a weakness of his, but he'd never known how to deal with it. A wave of gratefulness swept over him, the brunette had changed his life to the better in so many ways. It was like they understood other each other on a deeper level, and Clay couldn't be happier.
They'd taken a break from the "therapy". Clay sat with his back against a tree and George laid with his head in his lap. The brit was surprisingly chatty and told stories from his time back in England. He talked about his "gang" and how he'd basically lived in a garage, surviving on scamming drunk people for money. George said that he was usually the one doing all the planning, while his so-called friends executed them. The stories made sense and bits and pieces of the mysterious brit started to fall into place. He said that knife throwing was most often a worthless technique if you wanted to hurt someone, because hitting your target was easier said than done. And Clay believed him after today's lesson. George stated that it was more of a hobby and a party trick that could be used as a way to make people bet money. Because no one thinks that a cocky teenager would be good at throwing knives.
George did a good job at mitigating the dangers of knives, and even though Clay had a long way to go, he could see himself learning to handle the scary objects.
It was getting darker but the pair was too engulfed in conversation to notice their surrounding.
"So, I guess it's time for a proper presentation." Both boys jumped at the interruption of a British voice. Clay swiftly turned to where the voice stemmed from and was met with the sight of a dark-haired man dressed in a suit. The man radiated power. It was obvious who it was, his similarities with his son was uncanny. The hair, the pale skin and the reserved expression was a carbon copy of George, but one thing was different. The eyes. George had warm, dark-brown eyes that Clay loved so deeply. This man, however, had cold, steel blue ones that lacked all trace of warmth. If it ever existed a type of person that would pay someone to beat up his son, then this was exactly who Clay would've expected.
The man's voice was oddly familiar but Clay didn't have time to figure out why.
Both boys got up. George's dad reached out a hand for Clay to shake.
"Good to finally meet you. You must be Clay." Clay nodded an shook the hand. George eyes widened beside Clay, it must've been the shock that his father knew Clay's name. Because Clay doubted that George would've told him.
"Not to be rude to your guest George, but we have a rather important event to attend so I'm gonna have to put an end to your party." And those words was the last to be uttered before both of the British guys started walking away. George threw him a quick glance before following his dad.
Something was off and Clay wouldn't be able to just ignore it. He pulled out his phone when the two men were too far away to hear him talk.
A few signals went through before Nick picked up. Clay explained what just had had happened and lastly proposed his idiotic plan. It would be immoral but Clay refused to let this just slide. Nick seemed just as curious, so they came up with an agreement.
They were going to follow George and his dad.